


all along it was a fever

by nobirdstofly



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Coming Untouched, Dubious Consent, First Time, LA Era (Crooked Media RPF), M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-08 18:23:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18628747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nobirdstofly/pseuds/nobirdstofly
Summary: “Tommy,” Jon says, pitching his voice lower and leaning in. “You have to tell me what’s—”Jon doesn’t finish the sentence, because Tommy lurches forward and cuts him off. With his mouth. His mouth on Jon’s mouth, hot and insistent and more than a little pushy. Jon knows there’s a reason they can’t do this, that he shouldn’t be opening his lips for Tommy’s tongue, but he can’t remember why when it feels this good. He’s burning up, suddenly. Tommy must be right, that it’s too warm in here.





	all along it was a fever

**Author's Note:**

> though this is as consensual as a sex pollen fic can be, it's still dubious because, well... sex pollen. enter at your own risk. and keep it safe & secret AF. 
> 
> biggest thanks in the world to grace, who looked over this when it was mostly just 4k words of porn and encouraged me to add some feelings. this would not have been possible without you, dearest! thank you for letting me throw ideas at you until this had shape.

It’s the fourth quarter of a March Madness game that Jon doesn’t particularly care about when Tommy strips out of his red hoodie and Jon tries not to stare at the skin that’s exposed before Tommy tugs down his t-shirt. He watches the way Leo twitches in his sleep instead, almost pushed off his bed thanks to how Lucca’s sprawled out.

“How're you not dying?” Tommy asks, looking at Jon. At Jon in his fleece jacket, zipped up over a henley.

Jon furrows his brow. “I can open a window or something?” He doesn’t say, _It’s freezing out_ , even though it’s been weeks of on and off rain and temperatures in the 50s.

Tommy just shakes his head and looks back at the TV, but he keeps shooting short glances over at Jon. “It’s fine. God, this is gonna fuck up my bracket.”

“It’s bullshit,” Jon agrees, and it’s only because he’s watching Tommy out of the corner of his eye that he sees him wince. He turns to look fully at him. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m. It’s fine.” Tommy repeats, but it sounds like his teeth are gritted, and Jon can see the veins in his neck standing out in sharp relief.

“Dude, what’s—”

“I have to go,” Tommy says, but he doesn’t move. He crosses his arms tightly in front of his chest, and Jon tries not to look at how his muscles are on display. It’s — Jon’s just jealous, of all the time Tommy’s getting in at the gym, with the weight machines.

“Tom,” Jon says, his voice low, and reaches out. As soon as his fingertips brush Tommy’s arm, Tommy flinches violently, jerking away from Jon as much as he can without leaping off the couch.

“I can’t, you can’t,” Tommy mutters. “You have to— I have to go,” he says again, and he half stands before falling back down, hard enough that the couch is shoved back a couple inches.

“Are you gonna be sick?” It’s the only thing Jon can think of. “I can grab, like, a bucket. You don’t have to—”

“Can you stop talking?” Tommy asks, staring at Jon with bright eyes. His face is going red, and he’s breathing hard. When Jon nods, Tommy screws his eyes shut. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be, be an asshole, I just. I don’t know what’s happening.” His voice sounds whiny, but not in the joking way he’ll affect sometimes. It seems like... like he’s in _pain._

“Tommy,” Jon says, pitching his voice lower and leaning in. “You have to tell me what’s—”

Jon doesn’t finish the sentence, because Tommy lurches forward and cuts him off. With his mouth. His mouth on Jon’s mouth, hot and insistent and more than a little pushy. Jon knows there’s a reason they can’t do this, that he shouldn’t be opening his lips for Tommy’s tongue, but he can’t remember why when it feels this good. He’s burning up, suddenly. Tommy must be right, that it’s too warm in here.

Jon’s struggling to get the zipper down on his jacket when Tommy shoves his hands underneath it, forcing it roughly over Jon’s head and not paying any mind when it catches around his wrists, leaving Jon to struggle out of it. He hasn’t stopped kissing Jon, either, one of his hands firm on the side of Jon’s face, holding him there while he sucks on Jon’s tongue, while he bites at Jon’s lips. Holding him in place.

“Why aren’t you already—?” Tommy says, and then he answers his own unasked question, apparently, tugging Jon toward him, under him. Pressing him into the couch even as Tommy fumbles with his fly. “You have to let me. You have to.”

“Sure, yes,” Jon says mindlessly, without knowing what he’s agreeing to. “Whatever you need, whatever you— _fuck_.” Tommy has a big hand in Jon’s boxer briefs, wrapping around his hardening cock, jacking him for a second before pulling him out, already struggling with his own pants.

Then he has both of them in hand, and Jon wants to look, wants to stare and commit this to memory, but he can’t help throwing his head back against the cushions and whining. For all that it’s a dry handjob, it feels unreasonably good. Nothing has ever felt as good as this does, Jon is pretty sure. He feels like his entire body is lighting up, all of his attention drawn to where Tommy is touching him. Where Tommy’s cock is pressed up against his own.

Tommy’s bigger than him, which Jon _knew_ , thanks to campaign trail hotel rooms and awkward, blushing discussions about hooking up with women, but he has to see it for himself. Has to reach down and —

“Fuck yeah,” Tommy breathes, “come here.” He links his fingers with Jon’s, both of them holding onto their dicks, like all of this is fine. Like it’s all a normal thing they do, holding hands around their cocks while they watch Jon’s get wet at the tip. Tommy brings their hands up to collect the precome and then jacks them back down, a little too hard. Jon arches into it, pressing forward without meaning to.

He feels, bizarrely, like he’s just along for the ride. An out-of-body experience except it’s left him extremely in his body, aware of every millimeter of skin where he and Tommy are touching. His orgasm comes up on him fast, way too fast. “Fuck, Tommy, I’m gonna—”

“Good. Do it, come on. Give it to me, let me see you.”

Jon wants to dip his head and kiss Tommy again, but Tommy’s watching intently. Watching their hands move like he can’t imagine looking away. Before Jon can tug him up, or say anything else, it hits him, a wave of sensation that roars through him. He sees his come splattering their hands, their stomachs — getting on Tommy’s _cock_ , and then he has to close his eyes against how that makes his own spent cock twitch.

There’s a few seconds of reprieve after he comes, when he feels like he drifts back to consciousness. Where he can see the sun coming through the (thankfully closed) blinds, hear the sounds of the game on TV. It’s a little like he’s floating, or like he’s drunk. He shivers, the chill of the room rushing back in without his jacket, and he hears the buzzer on the game — and then Tommy’s hand tightens, squeezing Jon’s fingers around their cocks, and it’s all just him — _them_ again. Jon whimpers from the oversensitivity and Tommy curses under his breath, pressing his face into Jon’s neck and biting down.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Jon breathes. There’s going to be a mark, there’s no way there won’t be. “Fuck, Tommy, you can’t—”

“Shut up,” Tommy says against his skin, his lips wet. “Just let me,” he says, and then he bites down again, hard enough that Jon’s whole body jerks with it. Jon can do that, can let him, especially since — “Are you?” Tommy asks, his nose brushing against Jon’s jaw, keeping Jon’s hand wrapped tight with his around their cocks as he jerks them. “Fuck, are you still hard?”

Jon doesn’t know if he still is or if he got hard again or what, but he just nods, his chin bumping into Tommy’s forehead as Tommy scrapes his teeth down the line of his throat. Jon can tell Tommy’s holding back, distracted by his mouth on Jon’s neck. He tries to speed up the pace of their hands. He wants Tommy to feel as good as he does. He wants— “Tommy, you should, I want you to. I want to feel you come.”

“Jon,” Tommy gasps. “ _Jon_.” And then he is, spilling over their hands, his come mixing with Jon’s still streaked over their bellies. Jon takes advantage of Tommy’s hand going lax and falling away to keep touching, feeling out Tommy’s cock with light, exploratory touches.

When Tommy pushes himself up, kneeling over Jon, Jon doesn’t let go, watching the wet head of Tommy’s cock moving in his long fingers. “Jon,” Tommy says, and the way he says it is completely different than it sounded a minute ago. “Jon, what the hell—” he breaks off in a moan as Jon twists his wrist, thumbing over the head.

“Tommy, we have to, I need—”

“Yeah,” Tommy breathes, bending down again, his messy hands cupping Jon’s jaw as he kisses him. “I know, I know. Me too,” he says, letting go of Jon’s face to grip at his hips and, when Jon shifts eagerly up into his touch, his ass. He squeezes, palming at Jon and pulling a little, spreading him, and, “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Jon says, drawing the word out. It’s been awhile since he’s done this, but he remembers all the moving parts just fine. Then Tommy’s kissing him again, shoving his hands down the back of Jon’s pants, not teasing or being coy at all, rubbing insistently at Jon’s hole through the fabric of his underwear like he’s going to push a fingertip inside even through the cotton.

“Could eat you out,” Tommy says, breathing against Jon’s cheek, rubbing harder at him. “Could get you wet and open like that.”

Jon groans, his hips bucking. Tommy _could_ , he could, and it would feel so good. But Jon needs more than that, right now. More than Tommy’s mouth and his tongue. Needs at least, fuck, his fingers. So Jon forces himself to laugh, even if it sounds strained to his own ears. “Pretty sure we’re still going to need, uh, you know. Lube, Tom.”

Tommy pulls his face away from Jon’s neck, nodding frantically. “I know, I know. Of course, I know,” he says, like he’s convincing himself. Which shouldn’t — that shouldn’t make Jon feel, somehow, even hotter, all over. “Do you—?”

“Bedroom.” Before the word is fully out of his mouth, Tommy’s on his feet, pulling Jon with him. He practically frog-marches Jon down the hall, pushing him forward every time Jon tries to turn or reach for him or kiss him.

“Focus,” Tommy says, which Jon thinks is pretty rich for someone who keeps grinding his cock against Jon’s barely clothed ass, making Jon stumble each time. Tommy hauls him up and pushes him forward again, so that Jon has to catch himself on the doorframe. Then Tommy’s hands are all over him, yanking off his shirt and pushing down his underwear, leaving Jon to step out of the tangle of pants around his ankles as Tommy strips off his own t-shirt.

Jon watches as he lets himself fall back onto the bed, bouncing with the motion and trying to get his socks off while not looking away from Tommy’s broad shoulders, his abs. He could get his mouth there, and then lower, he could. Tommy’s cock is flushed dark and red, and it’s curving up toward his stomach. Jon’s mouth waters.

“Fuck, Tommy, c’mere,” he says, reaching out and doing it, when Tommy gets close enough, his tongue against Tommy’s sweat slick skin, tasting some of their come where it’s starting to dry. It’s gross, or it should be, but he has to get his mouth on Tommy’s dick, he has to.

He just barely has his mouth around the head before Tommy’s pulling him off. “No, come on, I want. I want to be inside you, you have to let me,” Tommy’s saying, his hand tight in Jon’s hair as he forces Jon to look up, craning to kiss him. “You’re going to, right? You’re gonna let me?”

“Fuck yeah, you just— nightstand, okay? You have to get—”

“Got it.” Tommy yanks the drawer open so hard that it comes out entirely, spilling a box of condoms and an extra charger and the aforementioned lube onto Jon’s bedroom floor. “Shit, sorry,” Tommy says, but he doesn’t really sound it, bending over to grab the bottle before he’s climbing onto the bed, encouraging Jon to scoot up enough that Tommy can get between his legs.

He’d probably force Jon’s thighs wider if Jon wasn’t already spreading them, Jon thinks. If he wasn’t already arching his hips up for Tommy’s wet fingers, wasn’t saying, “God, you can— go ahead, I can take it, please,” in a reedy voice he barely recognizes.

Tommy says, “I’ve got you, shh,” and then he’s pushing a finger inside. The slide is easier than it should be, considering how long it’s been since Jon’s done this, and he can’t catch his breath with how quickly Tommy’s got his entire finger inside, crooking it just right.

“Another, you should—”

“Trust me,” Tommy says, and he pulls out enough to get more lube. He kisses the inside of Jon’s knee, then the head of Jon’s dick, like he can’t help himself, while he pushes back inside with two, and Jon moans through the stretch.

It’s — a lot. It’s so much, after not having this for so long, for. For fucking years. It’s so much and it’s not enough, and Jon knows it’s not nearly enough to get him ready to take Tommy’s huge cock. “Come on,” Jon says, “you have to keep, keep going. You have to stretch me out, you have to— _fuck_!” Jon yells as Tommy drives his fingers purposely into Jon’s prostate, his aim spot on.

“I have fucked people before,” Tommy says, and even though it seems like the words should have been spoken in his driest tone, any semblance of humor is absent. He’s just letting Jon know, just stating a fact. Jon shivers at his flat voice. “I know what I’m doing.”

“I— I know. I trust you, I do, you just. You _have_ to.” Jon knows, distantly, that he’s babbling, but he needs to Tommy to know. He needs _more_ , and he needs it now. Tommy needs it, too, he knows, from how Tommy’s grinding against the mattress. Tommy has to hurry up before they both fucking burn alive, from the inside out. Or at least that’s what it feels like is going to happen if they don’t speed things along.

Tommy starts moving his fingers faster, surer, fucking into Jon in a quick, perfect rhythm that has Jon moaning loudly. Jon doesn’t have to beg for a third finger, and he gasps when Tommy pushes it in, rocking his hips down to get all of them pressed back in tight. He feels like he can come again, just from this. He’s never come untouched, not in his brief foray into sleeping with men, or with the couple women who’ve wanted to do this to him. It should be impossible anyway. He just came, not fifteen minutes ago, but the way his toes are curling says otherwise.

“Are you going to, can you— you can, can’t you? You can, you’re going to—“ Tommy says, sounding awed, and Jon _does_ , slapping a hand over his mouth to muffle his cry as he comes on Tommy’s fingers. Tommy keeps going, like he knows Jon can take it, and when Jon reaches for him he stretches up, carefully keeping his fingers tucked inside. “That was so hot,” Tommy says between kisses, “so fucking hot. Are you— you’ll let me, right? You’re gonna let me? I need to be inside you, you have to let me—”

“Yeah,” Jon says, and none of the relaxation he’s used to feeling after he comes — and especially after he comes more than once — is settling into his bones. It’s like the fire’s been banked but he can still feel it right there, so close beneath his skin. “Yeah, you can. You should, _please_. Please fuck me.”

“Jesus, Jon. I’m going to, going to fill you up.” Tommy slides his fingers out, and Jon makes a sound he’d be embarrassed of if it didn’t make Tommy lean down and kiss him again, hard and desperate. He hears the sound of Tommy slicking himself and he has an absent thought of praying he _is_ ready, before Tommy’s cock is against him, a blunt pressure that Jon’s body yields to. It’s way smoother than it should be, and Jon wonders if somehow the heat that’s coursing through him is doing this, relaxing him, making him easy for the long, thick press of Tommy’s cock.

The angle’s awkward for a second, not quite working, Jon shifting and trying to get Tommy deeper. Suddenly Tommy’s hands are tight on his hips, yanking him up, rearranging until Jon’s knees are splayed open over Tommy’s bent elbows. It leaves Jon flat on his back, mostly, his hips held in the air as Tommy thrusts all the way inside him at once, deep and good enough that Jon lets his head fall back, lolling against the sheets.

“Fuck, that’s. Feel so good,” Tommy says. He leans forward, rolling Jon’s hips up so it puts more pressure on his ribs, like he’s working up toward bending Jon in half.

Jon can’t breathe very well like this, can’t get air into his lungs all the way down, but then Tommy draws all the way out and slams back in, and Jon doesn’t care about anything else. There are worse things than passing out from lack of oxygen, and high up on the list is the idea of Tommy stopping.

Tommy pulls out and thrusts in, hard, and Jon groans. “Again,” he says. “You have to, have to do that again.”

“Going to,” Tommy says, and he sounds a little exasperated. “I know what I’m doing.”

“I know,” Jon says. “I know, I trust you. But you have to—” Jon cries out as Tommy shoves inside him again, then lets Jon feel the whole length of his cock as he pulls out so slow he’s shaking with the effort. Or maybe he’s just shaking in general. Jon feels like his whole body is vibrating. Like he’s woken up to an earthquake but he’s the opposite of terrified.

“Good?” Tommy asks, like he can’t hear the sounds Jon’s making. “You gotta tell—”

“So good. So, so good,” Jon rushes to say, his voice thin. Tommy’s rocking back into him, little, stilted movements that feed his cock back inside Jon inch by inch. It does feel good, but it’s not even close to enough. “Please, please. Need you, Tommy.”

Tommy groans and works back up to a punishing pace, letting go of Jon’s hips so he can feel out his chest, stretching his fingertips up to brush along Jon’s skin as far as he can reach while Jon’s calves knock against his biceps where they’re held up, bracketing Tommy’s body.

Jon feels like he’s getting close again, his cock impossibly hard, dripping against his abs. It’s ridiculous, and it hurts a little, but the fullness of Tommy inside of him is better, overriding everything. The drag of Tommy’s cock and the heat that feels like it’s suffocating him, so dense and humid in the room that they’re both sweating with it already.

Tommy’s hips shift as his knee slides on the sheets, hitting an angle that makes Jon keen. He slaps a hand over his mouth, biting at his knuckles to try to keep it inside, but Tommy reaches out, lightning quick, and pulls his hand back, staring at Jon with wide eyes.

“No, don’t, I want to hear you,” Tommy says. “Always wondered what you’d sound like. I used to— to. Sometimes I could hear you, in Chicago.” Jon sucks in a sharp, painful breath. He can’t look away, his hand still held tight, even as his body is jerking with Tommy’s thrusts. “When you’d bring girls back, I’d. Fuck, _Jon_. Tried not to listen, but you’re so. You’re so _loud_ , and I—”

“What, Tommy? You what?”

“Wondered how you’d sound if it were me in your bed. If I’d be able to make you loud like that, if—”

“Could’ve,” Jon says, “you could’ve, you could. You— you can. You are.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tommy says, but Jon can tell he’s not really listening.

Jon kicks at his ribs, landing a solid hit with his heel. “You could have. Could’ve been doing this forever. We could have—”

“Jesus, stop—” Tommy cuts himself off with a grunt as Jon’s body tightens around him. “Are you? Again?”

Jon nods, squeezing Tommy’s hand and nodding. “Yeah, yeah. You’re gonna make me, make me come on your dick. You feel so fucking good, always knew you would. I knew, I knew—” His eyes must have closed at some point, because he doesn’t see it coming when Tommy lets go of Jon’s hand to push two of his fingers into Jon’s open mouth, shutting him up. Jon moans and sucks at them, tasting sweat and come.

“You— I can’t. You look so good. I can’t wait, I have to,” Tommy’s saying, and Jon tries to tell him without words that he can, that he should, clenching his muscles and pushing his head up to take Tommy’s fingers deeper. Tommy groans and turns his head, his brow furrowed, biting hard at the inside of Jon’s knee as his hips stutter.

Gasping as Tommy’s fingers fall free of his mouth, Jon tugs at him, shimmying until he can get his legs wrapped around Tommy’s hips, pulling him down onto his body, clutching Tommy’s shoulders as he feels his cock pulse inside him. He rolls his hips for more of the feeling, mouthing at Tommy’s collarbone, his shoulder, listening to the way Tommy’s choppy breathing evens out in his ear.

The muscles in Tommy’s shoulders aren’t untensing, though, under Jon’s clenching fingers. They’re still tight, and Jon can’t help but dig his short nails in, hard, groaning as it makes Tommy’s hips jerk. And then he starts moving again, slow and a little sloppy, but that’s — he’s definitely —

“You’re still hard,” Jon says, wondering. “You can still—”

“Yeah, I can,” Tommy says, and he doesn’t sound winded at all. He pushes himself up on his forearms, framing Jon’s face with his hands before kissing him, deep and dirty and possessive. His hips are starting to move faster, and he winds an arm under Jon’s lower back to hold him up.

Jon’s hard cock is trapped between their bellies, and when he lets go of Tommy to reach down a hand, it barely takes him wrapping his fingers around the head before he’s coming again, breaking away to hide his face in Tommy’s neck as he makes a sound not unlike a sob. His eyes are wet, and he really can’t breathe now, Tommy’s weight heavy on top of him. He doesn’t let his grip on Tommy go, though. Can’t imagine having Tommy anywhere else but here, with him, too hot and too heavy and too — perfect.

Tommy nudges at Jon’s jaw, tipping his head back so he can nuzzle underneath, his teeth finding Jon’s neck again. “You feel so good,” he says, the words slurred into Jon’s skin. “That feel good? Me inside you? I’m gonna come in you again. Going to fill you up, that okay?”

“Yeah, yes,” Jon mutters. He’s pretty sure he’s still hard, and he’s so _warm_.

“Always wondered,” Tommy gasps, as he starts to transition into proper, slower thrusts, “if you’d take it well. Ever since I saw you with that guy from State. After the inaugural.”

Jon vaguely remembers, through the years in-between and the alcohol-fueled celebration that night, chatting up some assistant to an under secretary of one of the dozens of bureaus. Remembers the guy was tall and broad and handsome enough. Jon hadn’t known Tommy had seen him, seen _them_. He hadn’t even really done anything with that guy, and he certainly hadn’t done _this_.

“That was ten, fuck.” Jon whines as Tommy bites him again. “Ten fucking years ago, Tom, what the—”

Tommy cuts him off with a kiss, his fingers almost bruisingly tight on Jon’s jaw for a second before they gentle, stroking up to his ear and back down, over where their come is still streaked from earlier. Jon moans into his mouth, moving into the soft touch as Tommy keeps up the steady pace of their fucking. His movements are a little less frantic than before, settling into something… not exactly _slow_ , but easier, smoother.

“You’re— are you?” Tommy pants out, his thumbs brushing through the wetness below Jon’s eyes. “You’re so beautiful,” Tommy breathes, kissing Jon’s damp cheeks before kissing his mouth again.

Jon doesn’t know he’s going to come again before he does, following Tommy’s lead, floating in this place where there’s only heat and miles of bare skin. They’re touching more places than they’re not, and Jon’s talking when he tips over the edge, kissing words into Tommy’s skin. He doesn’t know what he’s saying, lost in how good he feels, but whatever it is makes Tommy push fingers back inside Jon’s mouth, feeling out his molars and stopping the flow of words.

Jon thinks he keeps trying to talk, if the way Tommy nuzzles his cheek where it’s bulging out around Tommy’s fingers and says, “Shh, shh, you’ve gotta shut up,” is any indication. His cock is still so big and thick inside him, and Jon rides the wave of this feeling, letting Tommy pet him and murmur softly to him. Letting Tommy keep fucking him even though it feels impossible to keep going.

 

 

He doesn’t know how much later it is that he resurfaces, wakes up groggy to his whole body hurting, but he’s so content that he doesn’t mind, not even about how dry-mouthed he is. Tommy’s still passed out beside him, pressed close and hunched over from where he’d finally slid out of and off of Jon. He’s lying on his stomach, his arm stretched out and curled around Jon’s ribs, moving with the rise and fall of Jon’s breathing. Jon reaches up and wraps his fingers around Tommy’s wrist, just resting there. He looks at Tommy for a long time, watches the sweep of his pale eyelashes and counts his freckles as Jon’s body speaks up about how used and wet and turned out it is. He can feel Tommy’s come dripping out of him, and the burn in his thighs makes it feel like he ran ten miles.

He feels like he could go again, too, some of the heat still left in his veins. He’s not sure if he could come, but it sounds nice, to stay here with Tommy. To roll around in the sheets like teenagers, making out while their skin is still tacky. He closes his eyes, tipping his head toward Tommy’s on the pillow, content to doze for now.

He wakes again to the soft sound of Tommy cursing, and he rolls over to see Tommy trying to fit the nightstand drawer back on its tracks. Jon watches him with a smile, Tommy all focused on fixing what he broke. He’s still naked, and it’s easy for Jon to let his eyes trip over all the pale skin, the way the muscles in Tommy’s back shift as he finally gets the drawer aligned and it slides neatly into place.

Jon’s stomach growls, breaking the quiet, and Tommy turns to look at him, startled, realizing he’s awake. Jon smiles, feeling a little sheepish, and turns away, reaching for his phone. But of course it’s not plugged in on the other nightstand. It’s somewhere in the living room still, probably on the coffee table from whenever he last checked Twitter. Before Tommy kissed him. Before Tommy touched him. Before —

“Uh,” Tommy says, and Jon turns around, iPad in hand, to see Tommy standing awkwardly beside the bed, his arms crossed over his chest, leaving the rest of him on display. Jon is tired, and aching, and starving, but his mouth still goes a little dry at the bulge of Tommy’s biceps.

“What?” Jon has to try a few times to get his voice to come out right. It’s barely more than a croak, and Tommy looks alarmed.

“You need tea,” Tommy says, “with honey.” Like Jon has a simple cold. Like Jon even has tea, or honey.

“I need food,” Jon corrects, his voice barely-there.

“Right,” Tommy says. “Right. I’ll, uh. I’ll get out of your hair.” Before Jon can say anything, or try to, Tommy’s pulling on his wrinkled clothes with a speed that is, frankly, impressive. Jon feels worn out just watching him. This is the first time Tommy hasn’t been touching Jon in — hours, probably. Jon shivers, suddenly aware of how cold it is now that the sun is setting and all the sweat on his skin has dried.

Tommy opens the bedroom door, and Leo and Lucca scamper in, whining and yipping, respectively. Tommy bends to scritch Leo’s ears before the dog bounds up onto the bed, tail wagging. He probably needs go out, Jon realizes, or he’s hungry. It’s late, and Jon feels guilty. He pulls the duvet around himself so he can cuddle Leo close, looking at all the fur and not Tommy’s face.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Tommy says after a long minute, gathering Lucca up, and Jon nods, even though Tommy’s already turning to walk away.

Jon stares at where Tommy was until he hears his front door shut and, after a second of silence that’s probably Tommy figuring out which key is Jon’s spare, lock. Leo wriggles in his arms, and Jon sighs, blinking hard. “Come on, buddy,” he says softly, trying to preserve his voice. “Let’s get you some dinner, okay?”

After Leo’s fed and watered, Jon drags himself into the bathroom for a long shower, trying not to think too much about how his whole body feels tender, or how he’s covered in come. He has to scrub at his face and his neck where it’s smeared from Tommy’s hands. Cheeks burning, he pushes his own fingers inside himself to make sure he’s clean, and his cock twitches painfully, trying to get hard again even after anything.

He can’t _stop_ thinking about it, is the thing. About Tommy coming inside him again and again, about the bruises and bitemarks he must have, and the ones he left in return. He’s going to see Tommy in the morning. They’re going to be in their shared office, at the company they founded together, living the lives they’ve built around one another, and all Jon can think about is how he wants Tommy back _now_. He wants to order a pizza with the toppings Tommy likes and crack open a couple beers and watch the highlights from the end of the game they missed.

He wants to kiss Tommy without feeling like he’s dying. He wants to do it just because, and he wants to do it because Tommy said he’s wanted this since Chicago.

Still damp from the shower, he makes himself strip the bed, replacing the sheets with clean ones. He knows he won’t want to do it later, and the new set smells only of detergent, not anything or anyone else. He’s hungry enough now that he feels a little sick from it, and he snacks on stale crackers until his Postmates shows up.

If he makes himself a drink, or three, that’s no one’s business but his. He digs out a Starbucks straw that’s still in the wrapper from the back of the drawer so he can drink while lying down on the couch. He’s on his stomach with his head propped up on a pillow, the only position that doesn’t make his body complain too loudly. He wakes up to Leo’s warm weight across his back and a stiff neck at midnight, and he doesn’t have any unread messages or missed calls.

“C’mon, Leo,” he sighs. “Bedtime.”

 

 

When Jon walks into the office the next morning, Lovett’s not there yet. Tommy says hi to Leo and doesn’t look Jon in the eye at all. “Morning,” he says, still staring at Leo. In turn, Jon can't stop staring at Tommy, at how there are rough, reddened patches of skin along his jaw, his neck. Patches that are definitely beard burn from Jon’s unshaven weekend stubble.

“Hey,” Jon says, after it's been long enough that Tommy risks a glance up at him. Jon’s voice is better, but it’s still not great, considering they’re in a primarily audio medium.

“Are you sick again?” Tommy asks, pointedly, eyes darting out to where their employees are milling about. “A cold?”

Jon grits his teeth, makes himself sniffle, and says, “Yeah, must be.”

Lovett makes an exaggerated sign of the cross from where he’s walking in the door, like Jon’s a vampire, and shrinks into himself. “Get your germs away from me, I have too much to do to be sick.”

“Yeah,” Jon says dryly, dropping into his desk chair and managing not to wince, “because I have nothing going on.”

Lovett shrugs. “Some of us are more important to the success of this company,” he says, but he smiles at Jon as he says it. “Need anything? Got meds, lozenges?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m good. Thanks.” Jon opens his email and doesn’t look over at Tommy again at all. He loses himself in work, grabbing onto anything that keeps his attention. Just before they record, he shrugs out of his hoodie.

“Holy shit,” Lovett says, and Jon looks up to find both him and Tommy staring at him. “Were you _mauled_?”

Jon feels himself going red. He’d forgotten about the dark, extremely conspicuous hickey on the side of his neck, plainly visible above the collar of his shirt. This morning, when he’d seen it in the cold light of day, he’d just been grateful it was the only one he couldn’t hide. The hoodie had covered it well enough, and he shrugs it back on quickly, pushing up the sleeves. It’s always chilly in the studio, he’ll be fine.

“Seriously,” Lovett’s saying, “did you go out or something last night? I thought you and Tommy were hanging out yesterday. Your little basketball playdate, or whatever.”

“It wasn’t a playdate,” Jon says, rolling his eyes, at the same time Tommy says, looking sternly at Jon, “Saturday. He went out Saturday.”

Lovett looks between them. “Oooookay.” He’s quiet for a minute before he turns to Jon. “Thought you were staying in on Saturday.”

Jon clears his throat. “Changed my mind.”

Lovett looks miffed, that he wasn’t invited or that Jon didn’t tell him the truth (even though he _did_ , Jon thinks bitterly), when he declined Lovett’s invite to go to some birthday party last minute. He had stayed in, and he’d gone to bed early, just like the old man Lovett had accused him of being.

Lovett rolls his eyes and announces, “Good job getting laid. Better luck next time, Vietor,” as they walk out of their office. Tommy opens his mouth like he’s going to protest that he also got laid, and Jon shoots him an incredulous look. Tommy has been blushing since he saw the hickey on Jon’s neck, and it doesn’t look like he’ll be stopping anytime soon.

Jon bumps his shoulder companionably, smiling at him. Maybe this is how they break the ice, how Jon gets him to talk about this. To at least _look_ at him. Tommy does look over, but all he offers Jon is a tight smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. Shared embarrassment and Lovett’s suspicion isn’t enough for him, apparently.

By the end of the day, Jon can’t stop fidgeting, both from residual soreness and the tension in their office. Every time he shifts uncomfortably in his seat, Tommy cringes, and Lovett looks ready to blow up at both of them. Tommy hightails it out of the office a couple minutes before closing time, and Lovett whirls on Jon.

“I’m coming over, and you’re buying me food, and I’m drinking your overpriced beer,” he says, shoving stuff into his bag with no regard as to how it fits or if it’s breakable.

“‘Kay,” Jon says weakly, staring at him.

“Hurry up, I’m hungry.”

They’re two tacos deep each on Jon’s couch when Lovett says, “Spill it. What the fuck happened with you and Tommy?”

“We, uh.” Jon picks at the tortilla, and his next taco starts to fall apart in his hands. “I’m not entirely sure? We sort of.” Jon stares at his food and tries not to let his voice go higher when he says, “Slept together?”

Lovett laughs, a bark of a sound. When Jon doesn’t join in or look at him, he flails, nearly knocking over his beer and Jon’s. “I’m sorry, what? _What_? Because it sounded like you just said that you— you had. Sex? You had,” Lovett makes a face, “sex with _Tommy_?”

“Yeah,” Jon says. He takes a deep breath and meets Lovett’s eyes. “A few times.”

“A few—?!” Lovett rubs his hands over his face. “ _What_?”

“I don’t know what happened! We were just sitting here, and—”

“Hold up. You did it _here_?” Lovett is suddenly very, very still.

Jon grimaces. “Um?”

“Oh my god.” Lovett leaps off the couch, managing to take his taco and beer with him, almost masterfully. “Oh my _god_.”

“It wasn’t like— nothing _got_ on the—” Jon rushes to say, but Lovett cuts him off.

“Please shut up. I don’t need all the, the sordid details. Just. How? Why now?”

“I don’t know,” Jon tells him. “One minute everything was fine, and then the next Tommy was saying it was hot and taking off his jacket.”

“That’s it?” Lovett asks, gesturing with his beer. “I’ve seen that porno. Is this chair safe?”

Jon rolls his eyes. “Yes, nothing untoward happened there.”

“So it just… happened?”

“Yeah, it was like.” Jon stops, thinking. He wants to say this right, to Lovett. “I— I _wanted_ it, wanted him, but it was like I didn’t— didn’t have a choice?” Lovett gets an alarmed look on his face, and Jon rushes to say, “Not like that! Not because of Tommy, it was, uh. Inside me? It felt like I had to. Like I’d—” Jon doesn’t want to say _die_ , but — “like it’d hurt, otherwise.”

“You’re describing some pon farr nonsense,” Lovett says. Then, at Jon’s confused look, “Fuck or die, basically.”

“Sure,” Jon says, blankly. It hadn’t felt exactly like that, but it hadn’t _not_ felt like that, either.

Lovett narrows his eyes. “And this isn’t a prank? You’re not April Foolsing me?”

Jon scrubs his hands over his face as he laughs hollowly. “No.”

“Did you like it?” Lovett asks, around a mouthful of food. When Jon looks up at him sharply, he shrugs. “You said you wanted it. Did you, really?”

“I don’t know, I— yeah? Yeah, I just never. I never thought it’d happen, you know?”

Lovett smirks a little. “You _like_ like him,” he says, like they’re in middle school.

Jon means to scoff, but all that comes out is: “It’s Tommy.”

Lovett’s face softens. His voice is delicate as he says, “Do you think he… didn’t? Want it, I mean. Is that why he’s being so cagey?”

“I don’t know! It’s gotta be, right? But, Lo, he. He was saying all this shit about how he’d wanted it for years, how he used to want to hook up with me when we first met.”

Lovett shifts in his seat, pulling his feet up onto the cushion. “Maybe he’s embarrassed?”

“Why does he get to be more embarrassed than me?” Jon says, throwing his hands wide. “Shit,” he says, as some of the taco fillings spill onto the floor. Leo’s already there, happy to clean up for him, while Pundit watches sedately.

Lovett shrugs one shoulder. “He spilled his guts to you. He, god I regret this already. He clearly wasn’t, um. Clearly you had vigorous— a vigorous encounter.” When Jon raises his eyebrow, Lovett cries, “You haven’t been able to sit still all day! He’s probably worried he hurt you. I swear you spent more time standing and leaning over to type than you did in your chair.”

Jon groans, he’d been hoping no one noticed that. He rubs at the inside of his knee, where there’s a mark from Tommy biting him. He’s glad his pants hide that evidence, at least. He thinks about shifting all day under Tommy’s furtive gaze, of being achy and uncomfortable and of Tommy knowing it was because of him, that he did that. He takes a drink of his beer to distract himself.

“Listen,” Lovett continues, “you’ve gotta talk to him. Not just for the sake of this company and maybe the country and definitely my own, personal welfare, but for the both of you, too. You had weird, not entirely consensual sex. You can’t put that, like, cat back in the, uh. The bag.”

Jon nods. “I’m going to try to take him out, or something.”

“Take him out? Like a date, or like a hit squad?”

Jon laughs, and he feels lighter than he has for most of the day. Lovett’s smiling at him, fond and untroubled. If Lovett’s not freaking out, it can’t be that bad. Lovett knows him, and he knows Tommy.

“Like a date,” Jon answers, smiling ruefully at Lovett. “Thanks for coming over, by the way.”

“You are very welcome for me inviting myself over.”

They sit in companionable silence, aside from the occasional arguing with CNN, until Lovett breaks it. “I’m going to regret asking this,” he says, “but is your voice wrecked because of, uh. You know. Blowjobs?”

Jon laughs, the sound softer than usual. “Believe it or not, no.”

“Then how— oh my god.” Lovett blanches, his voice drops low. “Did he, are you—?”

“You know when you go to a game—” Jon course corrects, watching Lovett’s unamused expression. “Fine, a concert, and you, you know. Yell and sing along, so the next day—”

“You _are_ , oh my god. I never needed to know this. Do you have more beer? You should get me more beer.”

Jon gets up, laughing. “Thanks,” he says again, squeezing Lovett’s shoulder when he passes by on his way to the refrigerator.

Lovett smiles up at him. “Anytime, you know that.”

Later that night, well after Lovett’s gone, Jon presses carefully on the bite on the inside of his knee again. In the safety and darkness of his bedroom, he pushes harder, gasping at the faint pain. His cock stirs, but he ignores it. He rolls onto his other side, feeling hot and guilty.

 

 

By Wednesday, when he doesn’t feel as much like his body’s been put through the wringer, and after he’s spent another awkward and mostly silent yesterday at the office, he doesn’t resist the urge to wrap his hand around his cock when he wakes up. He lets his mind wander, lets himself dwell in thoughts of Tommy’s hands, his mouth, the way he’d groaned and sighed. The way Jon had wrestled him onto his back and straddled him, sliding down onto his cock so he could ride Tommy to their nth orgasms of the night while Jon’s thighs trembled and burned. He thinks about the way Tommy had looked up at him with his mouth open, his hands vice-like on Jon’s hips, like he couldn’t believe his luck. Like Jon was something worth looking at, worth holding on to.

Jon feels a little guilty, after, and he’s still wrong-footed when he gets to the office. Tommy pulls up at the same time, and he parks next to Jon’s car. Jon expects a _hey_ and nothing more, just like there’s been all week. Tommy as conscientious and polite as always, without ever looking Jon in the eye.

Instead, he stops Jon with a hand on his arm before they can go in. Lucca jumps on Leo immediately, biting at his snout. “Hey,” Tommy says, still not quite looking at him. “We should talk.”

Jon smiles, in spite of himself. “Lovett got to you, too?”

Tommy laughs shortly and lets go of Jon. “Yeah. Yeah, something like that. So should we—?”

“Friday?” Jon blurts out. No time like the present, after all. “I mean, are you free Friday? After work, obviously. We could go to that new bar by my place? We keep talking about checking it out, the one with the lights strung up?”

“Uh, sure,” Tommy says, and then nods. “Sure, Friday sounds good. See you upstairs.” He pats Jon on the shoulder lightly and pulls Lucca with him, leading the way around Jon without looking back. Jon worries that this fragile thing strung between them, taking the place of a decade and a half of solid friendship, will be the new normal.

He mentally kicks himself. He should’ve insisted they make up some excuse and go talk right now, so this cloud isn’t hanging over them for another two days. He should’ve dragged Tommy to a private corner, or into one of their cars, and demanded to know what’s going on. If Tommy’s unsure, then that’s — that’s fine! Jon will prove it to him on Friday. He’ll take him out, wine and dine him, and tell him he hasn’t stopped thinking about all the things Tommy said on Sunday. Tell him he’s not scared of everything Tommy admitted.

Jon tries not to let himself think about the other what-ifs. What if he took advantage of Tommy somehow, or what if Tommy didn’t like it like Jon did? What if Tommy doesn’t feel that way about him? What if he never did, and it was all just mindless dirty talk, that just happened to be very, very sweet? What if Tommy can’t look at him now because he’s disgusted? Jon does his best to push it all from his head. He can last two more days of not knowing. Somehow.

 

 

He’s ready to crawl out of his skin by Friday, and, if Lovett’s annoyed glances are anything to go by, he’s driving everyone else crazy, too. When Brian asks him to proofread and fact check the newsletter with some extremely transparent excuse as to why no one else can’t do it, Jon has a feeling he has Lovett’s intervention to thank.

Sure, Jon messages back, minimizing the Politico article he hasn’t been reading for at least twenty minutes. The work is easy, soothingly mind-numbing, and, thankfully, productive. It sees Jon through until four, when Lovett emails him a Wired article about whether or not it’s okay to feed pets a vegan diet.

At five-thirty, Lovett slaps his hands down against his desk, and it makes Jon jump and Tommy look over mildly. “Should we get out of here? Summer Fridays, or whatever?”

“It’s April,” Jon says, without conviction.

“How about this?” Lovett says. “Both of you get the fuck out of here, I can’t deal with your— your emo shenanigans any longer.”

Jon throws his head back laughing, and it feels _good_ to laugh like this, after this week. He’ll take Lovett making fun of him, and calling out the elephant in the office, any time over the strained quiet of the last few days. When he gets his breath back, he looks over at Tommy, who’s smiling in what feels like the first time in forever. “What do you say?” Jon asks.

Tommy looks briefly at Jon before he looks away and shrugs. “Sure, we can— yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jon agrees, reaching for his bag.

 

 

They sit on the patio at the bar, under the string lights, and Jon can’t help thinking it’s a little romantic. He wants to reach across the table for Tommy’s hand, but Tommy’s busy taking photos of Lucca and Leo at their feet, presumably for instagram.

Instead, Jon smiles at their server and orders two margaritas. They left their cars at Jon’s and walked, after all. Might as well take advantage of the well-reviewed drink menu.

“Liquid courage,” Jon jokes, cheersing his glass against Tommy after the drinks get dropped at their table.

Tommy’s mouth turns down a little, but he takes a big gulp of his own margarita regardless. “Listen,” he starts, “you have every right to be upset.”

Jon must not have heard him correctly. “What?”

Tommy puts his hands up, palms out. “I get it, you should be. I just. I don’t want this to ruin everything. And I swear I won’t let it. I— it’s not easy, for me, but I’m sorry. I— I’m sorry about what happened—”

“I’m not,” Jon says stubbornly.

Tommy shoots him a look. “You don’t have to say that, for me. You shouldn’t. Just let me apologize, okay? I’m just trying to tell you that I can’t go back now. After that. I can’t stop thinking about how you— you looked and, and fucking _sounded_. Not to mention how you—” Tommy shakes his head, hard, and takes another big drink. “It’s fine, it doesn’t matter.” He looks at Jon, his gaze clear and direct. “We can talk about it, if you want, and then we’ll pretend nothing happened.” He nods to himself, like that solves everything. “It’ll be fine. We’ll move past this.”

“What if I don’t want to?” Jon asks.

Tommy’s face falls and then immediately hardens. Smooths out until it’s blank. “We’ll figure it out. If you’re not, not comfortable, I can leave. I’ll leave Crooked and we’ll figure out some excuse that—”

“I wanna blow you,” Jon blurts out, a little too loud judging by the way Tommy whips his head around to see if anyone heard.

“What the hell, Jon?” Tommy hisses. His face is suddenly so, so red.

“I didn’t get to. You didn’t let me, when— you know.” Jon knows how petulant he sounds, how whiny. “Relax, no one heard me.”

“You’re the one that wanted to do this in public,” Tommy says, still looking around them uneasily.

Jon throws his hands up, just barely missing his drink. “Sue me for wanting to take you on a date!”

Tommy stares at him for a long, long moment. The longest he’s looked at Jon in days, probably. Definitely the longest while Jon’s been looking back. His voice is higher-pitched than usual when he says, “A date?”

“What did you think this was?”

Tommy looks shifty. “I thought you wanted to be in a public place, just in case… you know.”

“I don’t know,” Jon says confidently.

“In case you were afraid to be alone with me,” Tommy says, all in a rush.

Jon stares at him in shock. “ _What_?”

“It’s not that ridiculous!” Tommy protests. He drops his voice to a whisper. “I— forced myself on you, on Sunday.”

“It was mutual,” Jon says, firm.

Tommy rolls his eyes. “Not exactly informed consent, dude.”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“But what?”

“Did you hate it that much?” Jon asks instead. “Was it— bad, for you?”

“What? No, of course it wasn’t, it was. You were.” Jon watches him shift in his seat. “Too good.”

“Too good,” Jon repeats, frowning. “Then why have you spent the entire week avoiding me?”

Tommy scrubs his hands across his face before he groans. “Do we really have to—? Fine, whatever. After I left on Sunday—”

“Why’d you leave at all?” Jon interrupts.

“Why’d I—? You wanted me to!” Tommy says, his voice low but hard.

“What? No, I didn’t,” Jon says, and then he realizes their server is hovering awkwardly near the table.

After they order, Tommy says. “You were doing the whole, like, thing. You had your tablet and you were talking about getting food and everything.”

“Yeah,” Jon says slowly, “I thought _we_ could get food.”

“Oh,” Tommy says, and his cheeks flush a deeper pink. Jon remembers him standing beside the bed, like he was waiting for something. Like he didn’t know what to do.

Jon leans forward. “Why didn’t you just talk to me, Tom? Was it because of, uh. Because of what you said? While, we… you know?”

Tommy laughs, the sound short and joyless. “‘Cause of what I said? What about what you said?”

“What I said?”

“You said.” Tommy looks away before turning back, his eyes boring into Jon. He sounds gutted. “You said you _loved_ me.”

“I what?” Jon feels faint, and the sounds of the restaurant and the street behind him fade away, replaced by a ringing sound in his right ear.

“Exactly,” Tommy’s saying, when Jon’s hearing starts to come back. “Under the influence of— whatever that was, you fucking said— that’s how I knew! That’s how I knew it wasn’t real. Fucking… love confessions when you’re basically drugged—”

“I do, though,” Jon says, knowing it’s true even as he hears the words coming out of his mouth. “It doesn’t matter how I, I said it. Because I do. You have to know that.”

Tommy stares at him, his lips flat, expression stern. “Jon, don’t do this.”

“You do, you have to,” Jon says, suddenly feeling a little desperate. “I don’t know if I— if I _knew_ , but I know it now.”

“How long?” Tommy says, his voice softer.

Jon shrugs. “Probably forever, man. It’s— it’s you. You said all that shit, everything about… about Chicago, and about D.C., and it just. It’s always been you, I think.”

Tommy’s still staring at him, a disbelieving look on his face. “What the fuck?” he says faintly, and Jon can’t help but smile.

“You were ‘under the influence,’ too,” Jon points out. “Did you mean what you said?”

Tommy smiles shyly, looking away. “Yeah, I did.” Then he looks back at Jon, his face a little more serious. “Let me take you home, and I’ll say it all again.”

Jon’s mouth goes dry, and he flags down their server. “I’m so sorry, but can we actually get our food to go?” Tommy laughs, his face still so red, but he doesn't argue.

 

 

The trip back to Jon’s is quick and quiet, both of them walking a touch too fast for it to be natural. Jon wants to laugh from nerves alone, but he doesn’t want to break the silence. Doesn’t want to ruin anything. He’s relieved he can focus on Leo, picking him up so he has something to do with his hands. Clutching him close for emotional support, as dumb as it is.

Once they get inside, the food is put away, and the dogs are off their leashes and free to roam, there’s a moment where Jon and Tommy just look at each other. Jon’s charmed by how much pink there still is in Tommy’s cheeks, spreading down his neck. He wants to touch it, feel the heat of it. He wants to put his mouth there.

Suddenly, Tommy’s closer, his hand hovering next to Jon’s face. “Can I?” he asks, and Jon’s barely nodded before Tommy’s hand is at his jaw, holding Jon gently as he leans in and kisses him. It’s nothing like their first kiss, nearly a week ago, and nothing like the ones that followed that day. It’s measured and purposeful, though Jon thinks he can still taste something frantic in it. Awkwardly clutching Leo’s leash in his left, he brings his hands up to Tommy’s shoulders. At his touch, Tommy relaxes. The kiss slows and deepens, and Jon can’t help but melt into it a little.

“I was being serious,” he says when they both pull back for air, foreheads tipped together. “I do want to blow you.”

Tommy laughs and says, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I can agree to that,” and it’s the best thing Jon’s ever heard.

Jon hasn’t done this in forever, either, but there’s something about the stretch of Tommy’s body across the bed — naked and glowing in the bedside lamplight (“I want to see you,” Tommy had said simply, and Jon had fought not to look away as he smiled) — that makes the hunger inside Jon override his anxiety of messing up.

He seeks out Tommy’s sounds, repeating what makes him groan the loudest, and moves into the light press of Tommy’s hands in his hair, on his jaw. He can’t get down all the way, and he hopes he’ll get the chance to practice in the future. He wants to know what it’d be like, having Tommy’s cock down his throat, and he moans at the idea.

“Shit, Jon,” Tommy curses, running a big hand down to the nape of Jon’s neck and back to his face, feeling out where Jon’s cheek is hollowed. “So fucking— you look so good.” Jon smiles as much as he can around his mouthful and gets back to work.

It doesn’t take long at all before Tommy’s trying to warn him, pull him off, but Jon catches Tommy’s hands in his to keep them at bay, holding them to the bed as Tommy’s hips buck helplessly. Jon swallows, only barely choking, and he’s panting into Tommy’s thigh when Tommy comes back to earth.

“Thank you,” Tommy says, in this awestruck voice that makes Jon want to hide his face and preen all at once. “You’ve gotta let me,” he continues, and then he’s pulling Jon up his body, keeping one hand around the back of his head and wrapping the other around Jon’s cock.

Jon buries his face in Tommy’s throat as he’s jerked off, already so close from the weight of Tommy’s cock in his mouth. He can’t stop moaning, and he’d feel self conscious if not for the way Tommy keeps petting his hair, his neck, his shoulders. Telling him he did well, telling him to come.

Tommy lets him collapse, after, pulling Jon down onto him, holding him tight as Jon remembers how to breathe. “This was, uh.” Jon clears his throat. “This was good.”

“Ten out of ten,” Tommy says, making both of them laugh.

“Even without all the, you know,” Jon says, waggling his fingers in the air as he slides off of Tommy to lie beside him, “still perfect ratings over here.” His chin is propped on Tommy’s shoulder, head barely on the pillow. It shouldn’t be as comfortable as it is. He’s watching Tommy’s face from close up as he says, “Would definitely try again, right?”

Tommy licks his lips. “I don’t know if we can, uh. The same, you know.” He turns to look at Jon, their noses brushing. His voice is lower when he asks, “How many did you— do you know? That night, I mean. Because I, um. I don’t know.”

Jon laughs, surprised and delighted. “I kind of lost count after the, the fifth? I think the fifth time. It was crazy.”

“Jesus,” Tommy says. “I guess we’ll have to, um. We should try out the marathon sex thing again, without whatever the fuck that was in the air, or the water.” Jon sees the movement of his throat as he swallows. “If you want, I mean.”

“I want,” Jon says, knee-jerk. He doesn’t think he’s stopped smiling since the bar; his cheeks are going to hurt.

“If it’s even possible,” Tommy adds, his grin shy.

Jon thinks of the reverent way Tommy had looked at him when he first pushed inside him, days ago. Thinks of how Tommy had watched him, tonight, with Jon curled up at the foot of the bed, determined to take more of Tommy’s cock in his mouth. He thinks of sharing a cubicle and an apartment and two companies and a life.

He smiles at Tommy, reaching out to touch where there’s still color high on Tommy’s cheekbones. “We can do our best,” he says. “Just like always.”


End file.
